I turned off the comment section of my blog for the first time so I could spend the day chilling with my kids instead of responding to what I assumed would be a shitstorm of passionate comments about blogging/ethics/motherhood/mommy wars/lawn mowing safety/Southern women/ and poop.

If you’re just joining us, you can get the gist of it here, and also on my Facebook page.

Long story short, I posted some pictures I thought were really cool and a bunch of my readers (not trolls, mind you, regular readers and even some I would consider friends) had very critical things to say about the parenting choices of the subject in the photos.

I’m not going to lie; it made me feel sad.

In my stunted little mind, it was like the equivalent of a child standing up in class to show everyone the picture she just drew and half the kids saying “That sucks. Ponies aren’t purple, you idiot. Babies die on those kind of ponies. Only a loser would think that was cool.”

Well that’s how it felt.

Granted, I am notorious for my thin-skin. Folks, it is a widely known fact that people who are “funny” (as in ha-ha, not like milk that’s gone bad and smells funny) are pretty fucked up little souls. We are damaged goods and our senses of humor most likely evolved as a coping mechanism to avoid dealing with all the scary feelings. You should really just walk on eggshells when you’re around us and only give us lavish praise instead of any kind of criticism or we might die on the spot. Do you want us to die? Really? Then be nice, bitch.

I’m only halfway kidding.

I used to have a friend, let’s call her Hortense, who constantly criticized my shopping choices. We would go to antique shops in San Francisco and I’d pick up something I thought was interesting and say, “What do you think of this?” Without fail, she would always say “Well, it’s not my taste, but if it works for you, go for it!” all the while making a face like I just farted three-day old oyster stew and wafted it in her general direction.

Our friendship didn’t last.

Maybe because I really did have a flatulence problem.

But looking back on it, I was a needy mofo. I shouldn’t have been seeking her approval for every purchase. I should have just bought that tacky granny square afghan and been like, “Hey Hortense, look what I just bought! I fucking LOVE it!” Who cares what she thinks?!

My point is, I am really quite an immature child deep inside and need lots and lots of warm fuzzies to compensate for my low self-esteem. I know it’s a lot to ask, so I’m going to make it easier on you by keeping my comments closed for the rest of the summer.

I didn’t pioneer that move, by the way. I’m piggy backing off another blogger I adore, Pretty All True. She turned her comments off a while ago so she could focus on the writing and never went back. That takes balls. I like that. I want balls like hers. I want the freedom to write from the heart without worrying about who I’m going to offend or whether or not my endorsement is going to contribute to a sharp increase in lawn mower related injuries. I just want to write.

And I think most of you will be okay with that, because you come here to read.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy our witty repartee. I do. I just know that it’s a lot of pressure to comment. In fact, as far as numbers go, only a small percentage of you comment anyway, which tells me that most of you:

a.) are too busy to comment (“I don’t have time for this shit.”)

b.) are too technologically challenged to comment (“Hal? What am I supposed to put in this URL box thingie?”)

c.) are on your phone.

d.) are too intimidated to comment (“Will she think this is funny or offensive? Is it your or you’re? Dammit! Forget it. I’m just not going to say anything.”)

e.) were raised by mothers who taught you that if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. (“This girl is as fucked up as a soup sandwich. I have nothing nice to say. Get me the hell outta here. I’m going to play Vajingo.”)

I so totally get it. I read other blogs all the time and don’t comment for one or more of the above reasons. Nothing personal (usually).

So let’s give it a shot. If you really really want to tell me something, you will find a way. I have faith in you.

It’s a very big honor and I am truly grateful for the nod. There were over 1700 submissions and they only chose 20 humor posts. And it was chosen by a committee rather than by the vote-whoring I usually have to do for these things, which makes it even more special to me. So thank you, BlogHer, and my unofficial sponsor, Magic Cream. (This is not a sponsored post. I have never made a dime off that stuff.)

I don’t often get to say that I’m ahead of the game, so cooking with my Crock Pot is always a nice boost to the self esteem. I just love being able to get all that pesky meal prep out of the way early in the day while I’m still all hopped up on the French Roast and not totally consumed with beating my children trying to survive the Witching Hour.

So tonight we’ll be eating barbecue pork sandwiches made from my children’s favorite cut of meat, The Boston Butt. This just tickles their funny bones like nothing else in my kitchen, with the possible exception of wieners and porcupine balls.

My three year old, Bucket Head, is especially fond of this meal. But this is a child who frequently just stops for no reason, points to his pooper, and says “Butt.”

"Butt."

Personally, I love this meal because it requires just a handful of ingredients, and I can toss it in the Crock Pot and forget about it for the whole live long day.

I’m not very good at taking pictures while I cook, so I can’t show you step by step how I did most of this, but here’s what it looked like right before I put the lid on it and walked away:

"Butt."

To make this yourself, all you need is a big ol’ Boston Butt pork roast. I like the kind with the bone in, but I’m sure you knew that already. Oh yes I did.

You will also need a few onions, some fresh thyme, and a can of Coke.

This recipe is so easy, I could probably do it blindfolded with my toes while texting The Star Spangled Banner, Christina Aguilera style. All you do is liberally season your big ol’ butt with salt and pepper, then brown it on all sides in an oily skillet, and toss it in your Crock Pot. Chop a few onions into big wedges and throw those in too. Then add a few whole sprigs of thyme and pour an entire can of Coke over the whole thing. Put a lid on that sucker and go about your bidness. Cook that bad boy all day on low. Or if you get a late start like I did today, give it a couple hours on high and then turn it to low for the rest of the day.

When it’s almost time for dinner, take that gorgeous tender butt out and let it rest for a spell while you whip up some cole slaw and open a can of baked beans. Once it is cool enough to touch, have your hunk-a-hunk-a-burning-love chop it up for you. Or do it yourself… I just couldn’t chop and take pictures at the same time, der.

"Butt."

Just so we’re clear, those hairy knuckles are not mine. They belong to The Gatekeeper. Now where was I? Oh yes…

Now mix in some barbecue sauce and a teaspoon or two of apple cider vinegar if you like it North Carolina style like we do. If my kids weren’t so wimpy I’d add some heat too at this point. No biggie though, I can just put it on my own sandwich at the table.

"Butt."

Now gather up the fam, say a blessing, and dig in! Butt jokes are optional, of course, but at my house this meal always spurs numerous compliments like: “Oh Mom! Your butt is so tender and juicy!” And “I yike your butt, Mommy.” And “Mom, your butt rocks.” So yeah… no wonder I love cooking this meal.